Phineas Redux, by Anthony Trollope

Chapter 1

Temptation

The circumstances of the general election of 18 — will be well remembered by all those who take an
interest in the political matters of the country. There had been a coming in and a going out of ministers previous to
that — somewhat rapid, very exciting, and, upon the whole, useful as showing the real feeling of the country upon
sundry questions of public interest. Mr Gresham had been Prime Minister of England, as representative of the Liberal
party in politics. There had come to be a split among those who should have been his followers on the terribly vexed
question of the Ballot. Then Mr Daubeny for twelve months had sat upon the throne distributing the good things of the
Crown amidst Conservative birdlings, with beaks wide open and craving maws, who certainly for some years previous had
not received their share of State honours or State emoluments. And Mr Daubeny was still so sitting, to the infinite
dismay of the Liberals, every man of whom felt that his party was entitled by numerical strength to keep the management
of the Government within its own hands.

Let a man be of what side he may in politics — unless he be much more of a partisan than a patriot — he will think
it well that there should be some equity of division in the bestowal of crumbs of comfort. Can even any old Whig wish
that every lord lieutenant of a county should be an old Whig? Can it be good for the administration of the law that
none but Liberal lawyers should become Attorney-Generals, and from thence Chief Justices or Lords of Appeal? Should no
Conservative Peer ever represent the majesty of England in India, in Canada, or at St Petersburgh? So arguing, moderate
Liberals had been glad to give Mr Daubeny and his merry men a chance. Mr Daubeny and his merry men had not neglected
the chance given them. Fortune favoured them, and they made their hay while the sun shone with an energy that had never
been surpassed, improving upon Fortune, till their natural enemies waxed impatient. There had been as yet but one year
of it, and the natural enemies, who had at first expressed themselves as glad that the turn had come, might have
endured the period of spoliation with more equanimity. For to them, the Liberals, this cutting up of the Whitehall cake
by the Conservatives was spoliation when the privilege of cutting was found to have so much exceeded what had been
expected. Were not they, the Liberals, the real representatives of the people, and, therefore, did not the cake in
truth appertain to them? Had not they given up the cake for a while, partly, indeed, through idleness and
mismanagement, and quarrelling among themselves; but mainly with a feeling that a moderate slicing on the other side
would, upon the whole, be advantageous? But when the cake came to be mauled like that — oh, heavens! So the men who had
quarrelled agreed to quarrel no more, and it was decided that there should be an end of mismanagement and idleness, and
that this horrid sight of the weak pretending to be strong, or the weak receiving the reward of strength, should be
brought to an end. Then came a great fight, in the last agonies of which the cake was sliced manfully. All the world
knew how the fight would go; but in the meantime lord-lieutenancies were arranged; very ancient judges retired upon
pensions; vice-royal Governors were sent out in the last gasp of the failing battle; great places were filled by tens,
and little places by twenties; private secretaries were established here and there; and the hay was still made even
after the sun had gone down.

In consequence of all this the circumstances of the election of 18 — were peculiar. Mr Daubeny had dissolved the
House, not probably with any idea that he could thus retrieve his fortunes, but feeling that in doing so he was
occupying the last normal position of a properly-fought Constitutional battle. His enemies were resolved, more firmly
than they were resolved before, to knock him altogether on the head at the general election which he had himself called
into existence. He had been disgracefully out-voted in the House of Commons on various subjects. On the last occasion
he had gone into his lobby with a minority of 37, upon a motion brought forward by Mr Palliser, the late Liberal
Chancellor of the Exchequer, respecting decimal coinage. No politician, not even Mr Palliser himself, had expected that
he would carry his Bill in the present Session. It was brought forward as a trial of strength; and for such a purpose
decimal coinage was as good a subject as any other. It was Mr Palliser’s hobby, and he was gratified at having this
further opportunity of ventilating it. When in power, he had not succeeded in carrying his measure, awed, and at last
absolutely beaten, by the infinite difficulty encountered in arranging its details. But his mind was still set upon it,
and it was allowed by the whole party to be as good as anything else for the purpose then required. The Conservative
Government was beaten for the third or fourth time, and Mr Daubeny dissolved the House.

The whole world said that he might have well have resigned at once. It was already the end of July, and there must
be an autumn Session with the new members. It was known to be impossible that he should find himself supported by a
majority after a fresh election. He had been treated with manifest forbearance; the cake had been left in his hands for
twelve months; the House was barely two years old; he had no “cry” with which to meet the country; the dissolution was
factious, dishonest, and unconstitutional. So said all the Liberals, and it was deduced also that the Conservatives
were in their hearts as angry as were their opponents. What was to be gained but the poor interval of three months?
There were clever men who suggested that Mr Daubeny had a scheme in his head — some sharp trick of political conjuring,
some “hocus-pocus presto” sleight of hand, by which he might be able to retain power, let the elections go as they
would. But, if so, he certainly did not make his scheme known to his own party.

He had no cry with which to meet the country, nor, indeed had the leaders of the Opposition. Retrenchment, army
reform, navy excellence, Mr Palliser’s decimal coinage, and general good government gave to all the old-Whig moderate
Liberals plenty of matter for speeches to their future constituents. Those who were more advanced could promise the
Ballot, and suggest the disestablishment of the Church. But the Government of the day was to be turned out on the score
of general incompetence. They were to be made to go, because they could not command majorities. But there ought to have
been no dissolution, and Mr Daubeny was regarded by his opponents, and indeed by very many of his followers also, with
an enmity that was almost ferocious. A seat in Parliament, if it be for five or six years, is a blessing; but the
blessing becomes very questionable if it have to be sought afresh every other Session.

One thing was manifest to thoughtful, working, eager political Liberals. They must have not only a majority in the
next Parliament, but a majority of good men — of men good and true. There must be no more mismanagement; no more
quarrelling; no more idleness. Was it to be borne that an unprincipled so-called Conservative Prime Minister should go
on slicing the cake after such a fashion as that lately adopted? Old bishops had even talked of resigning, and Knights
of the Garter had seemed to die on purpose. So there was a great stir at the Liberal political clubs, and every good
and true man was summoned to the battle.

Now no Liberal soldier, as a young soldier, had been known to be more good and true than Mr Finn, the Irishman, who
had held office two years ago to the satisfaction of all his friends, and who had retired from office because he had
found himself compelled to support a measure which had since been carried by those very men from whom he had been
obliged on this account to divide himself. It had always been felt by his old friends that he had been, if not
ill-used, at least very unfortunate. He had been twelve months in advance of his party, and had consequently been
driven out into the cold. So when the names of good men and true were mustered, and weighed, and discussed, and
scrutinised by some active members of the Liberal party in a certain very private room not far removed from our great
seat of parliamentary warfare; and when the capabilities, and expediencies, and possibilities were tossed to and fro
among these active members, it came to pass that the name of Mr Finn was mentioned more than once. Mr Phineas Finn was
the gentleman’s name — which statement may be necessary to explain the term of endearment which was occasionally used
in speaking of him.

“He has got some permanent place,” said Mr Ratler, who was living on the well-founded hope of being a Treasury
Secretary under the new dispensation; “and of course he won’t leave it.”

It must be acknowledged that Mr Ratler, than whom no judge in such matters possessed more experience, had always
been afraid of Phineas Finn.

“He’ll leave it fast enough, if you’ll make it worth his while,” said the Honourable Laurence Fitzgibbon, who also
had his expectations.

“But he married when he went away, and he can’t afford it,” said Mr Bonteen, another keen expectant.

“Devil a bit,” said the Honourable Laurence; “or, anyways, the poor thing died of her first baby before it was born.
Phinny hasn’t an impidiment, no more than I have.”

“Bedad, you needn’t except me, Barrington. I know what a man’s made of, and what a man can do. And I know what he
can’t do. I’m not bad at the outside skirmishing. I’m worth me salt. I say that with a just reliance on me own powers.
But Phinny is a different sort of man. Phinny can stick to a desk from twelve to seven, and wish to come back again
after dinner. He’s had money left him, too, and ‘d like to spend some of it on an English borough.”

“You never can quite trust him,” said Bonteen. Now Mr Bonteen had never loved Mr Finn.

“At any rate we’ll try him again,” said Barrington Erle, making a little note to that effect. And they did try him
again.

Phineas Finn, when last seen by the public, was departing from parliamentary life in London to the enjoyment of a
modest place under Government in his own country, with something of a shattered ambition. After various turmoils he had
achieved a competency, and had married the girl of his heart. But now his wife was dead, and he was again alone in the
world. One of his friends had declared that money had been left to him. That was true, but the money had not been much.
Phineas Finn had lost his father as well as his wife, and had inherited about four thousand pounds. He was not at this
time much over thirty; and it must be acknowledged in regard to him that, since the day on which he had accepted place
and retired from London, his very soul had sighed for the lost glories of Westminster and Downing Street.

There are certain modes of life which, if once adopted, make contentment in any other circumstances almost an
impossibility. In old age a man may retire without repining, though it is often beyond the power even of the old man to
do so; but in youth, with all the faculties still perfect, with the body still strong, with the hopes still buoyant,
such a change as that which had been made by Phineas Finn was more than he, or than most men, could bear with
equanimity. He had revelled in the gas-light, and could not lie quiet on a sunny bank. To the palate accustomed to high
cookery, bread and milk is almost painfully insipid. When Phineas Finn found himself discharging in Dublin the routine
duties of his office — as to which there was no public comment, no feeling that such duties were done in the face of
the country — he became sick at heart and discontented. Like the warhorse out at grass he remembered the sound of the
battle and the noise of trumpets. After five years spent in the heat and full excitement of London society, life in
Ireland was tame to him, and cold, and dull. He did not analyse the difference between metropolitan and
quasi-metropolitan manners; but he found that men and women in Dublin were different from those to whom he had been
accustomed in London. He had lived among lords, and the sons and daughters of lords; and though the official
secretaries and assistant commissioners among whom his lot now threw him were for the most part clever fellows, fond of
society, and perhaps more than his equals in the kind of conversation which he found to be prevalent, still they were
not the same as the men he had left behind him — men alive with the excitement of parliamentary life in London. When in
London he had often told himself that he was sick of it, and that he would better love some country quiet life. Now
Dublin was his Tibur, and the fickle one found that he could not be happy unless he were back again at Rome. When,
therefore, he received the following letter from his friend, Barrington Erle, he neighed like the old warhorse, and
already found himself shouting “Ha, ha,” among the trumpets.

“ — Street, 9th July 18 — “ MY DEAR FINN,

“Although you are not immediately concerned in such trifling matters you no doubt heard that we are to be sent back
at once to our constituents, and that there will be a general election about the end of September. We are sure that we
shall have such a majority as we never had before; but we are determined to make it as strong as possible, and to get
in all the good men that are to be had. Have you a mind to try again? After all, there is nothing like it.

“Perhaps you may have some Irish seat in your eye for which you would be safe. To tell the truth we know very little
of the Irish seats — not so much as, I think, we ought to do. But if you are not so lucky I would suggest Tankerville
in Durham. Of course there would be a contest, and a little money will be wanted; but the money would not be much.
Browborough has sat for the place now for three Parliaments, and seems to think it all his own. I am told that nothing
could be easier than to turn him out. You will remember the man — a great, hulking, heavy, speechless fellow, who
always used to sit just over Lord Macaw’s shoulder. I have made inquiry, and I am told that he must walk if anybody
would go down who could talk to the colliers every night for a week or so. It would just be the work for you. Of
course, you should have all the assistance we could give you, and Molescroft would put you into the hands of an agent
who wouldn’t spend money for you. oe500 would do it all.

“I am very sorry to hear of your great loss, as also was Lady Laura, who, as you are aware, is still abroad with her
father. We have all thought that the loneliness of your present life might perhaps make you willing to come back among
us. I write instead of Ratler, because I am helping him in the Northern Counties. But you will understand all about
that.

“Yours, ever faithfully “ BARRINGTON ERLE

“Of course Tankerville has been dirty. Browborough has spent a fortune there. But I do not think that that need
dishearten you. You will go there with clean hands. It must be understood that there shall not be as much as a glass of
beer. I am told that the fellows won’t vote for Browborough unless he spends money, and I fancy he will be afraid to do
it heavily after all that has come and gone. If he does you’ll have him out on a petition. Let us have an answer as
soon as possible.”

He at once resolved that he would go over and see; but, before he replied to Erle’s letter, he walked half-a-dozen
times the length of the pier at Kingston meditating on his answer. He had no one belonging to him. He had been deprived
of his young bride, and left desolate. He could ruin no one but himself. Where could there be a man in all the world
who had a more perfect right to play a trick with his own prospects? If he threw up his place and spent all his money,
who could blame him? Nevertheless, he did tell himself that, when he should have thrown up his place and spent all his
money, there would remain to him his own self to be disposed of in a manner that might be very awkward to him. A man
owes it to his country, to his friends, even to his acquaintance, that he shall not be known to be going about wanting
a dinner, with never a coin in his pocket. It is very well for a man to boast that he is lord of himself, and that
having no ties he may do as he pleases with that possession. But it is a possession of which, unfortunately, he cannot
rid himself when he finds that there is nothing advantageous to be done with it. Doubtless there is a way of riddance.
There is the bare bodkin. Or a man may fall overboard between Holyhead and Kingston in the dark, and may do it in such
a cunning fashion that his friends shall think that it was an accident. But against these modes of riddance there is a
canon set, which some men still fear to disobey.

The thing that he was asked to do was perilous. Standing in his present niche of vantage he was at least safe. And
added to his safety there were material comforts. He had more than enough for his wants. His work was light: he lived
among men and women with whom he was popular. The very fact of his past parliamentary life had caused him to be
regarded as a man of some note among the notables of the Irish capital. Lord lieutenants were gracious to him, and the
wives of judges smiled upon him at their tables. He was encouraged to talk of those wars of the gods at which he had
been present, and was so treated as to make him feel that he was somebody in the world of Dublin. Now he was invited to
give all this up; and for what?

He answered that question to himself with enthusiastic eloquence. The reward offered to him was the thing which in
all the world he liked best. It was suggested to him that he should again have within his reach that parliamentary
renown which had once been the very breath of his nostrils. We all know those arguments and quotations, antagonistic to
prudence, with which a man fortifies himself in rashness. “None but the brave deserve the fair.” “Where there’s a will
there’s a way.” “Nothing venture nothing have.” “The sword is to him who can use it.” “Fortune favours the bold.” But
on the other side there is just as much to be said. “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” “Look before you
leap.” “Thrust not out your hand further than you can draw it back again.” All which maxims of life Phineas Finn
revolved within his own heart, if not carefully, at least frequently, as he walked up and down the long pier of
Kingston Harbour.

But what matter such revolvings? A man placed as was our Phineas always does that which most pleases him at the
moment, being but poor at argument if he cannot carry the weight to that side which best satisfies his own feelings.
Had not his success been very great when he before made the attempt? Was he not well aware at every moment of his life
that, after having so thoroughly learned his lesson in London, he was throwing away his hours amidst his present
pursuits in Dublin? Did he not owe himself to his country? And then, again, what might not London do for him? Men who
had begun as he began had lived to rule over Cabinets, and to sway the Empire. He had been happy for a short
twelvemonth with his young bride — for a short twelvemonth — and then she had been taken from him. Had she been spared
to him he would never have longed for more than Fate had given him. He would never have sighed again for the glories of
Westminster had his Mary not gone from him. Now he was alone in the world; and, though he could look forward to
possible and not improbable events which would make that future disposition of himself a most difficult question for
him, still he would dare to try.

As the first result of Erle’s letter Phineas was over in London early in August. If he went on with this matter, he
must, of course, resign the office for holding which he was now paid a thousand a year. He could retain that as long as
he chose to earn the money, but the earning of it would not be compatible with a seat in Parliament. He had a few
thousand pounds with which he could pay for the contest at Tankerville, for the consequent petition which had been so
generously suggested to him, and maintain himself in London for a session or two should he be so fortunate as to carry
his election. Then he would be penniless, with the world before him as a closed oyster to be again opened, and he knew
— no one better — that this oyster becomes harder and harder in the opening as the man who has to open it becomes
older. It is an oyster that will close to again with a snap, after you have got your knife well into it, if you
withdraw your point but for a moment. He had had a rough tussle with the oyster already, and had reached the fish
within the shell. Nevertheless, the oyster which he had got was not the oyster which he wanted. So he told himself now,
and here had come to him the chance of trying again.

Early in August he went over to England, saw Mr Molescroft, and made his first visit to Tankerville. He did not like
the look of Tankerville; but nevertheless he resigned his place before the month was over. That was the one great step,
or rather the leap in the dark — and that he took. Things had been so arranged that the election at Tankerville was to
take place on the 20th of October. When the dissolution had been notified to all the world by Mr Daubeny an earlier day
was suggested; but Mr Daubeny saw reasons for postponing it for a fortnight. Mr Daubeny’s enemies were again very
ferocious. It was all a trick. Mr Daubeny had no right to continue Prime Minister a day after the decided expression of
opinion as to unfitness which had been pronounced by the House of Commons. Men were waxing very wrath. Nevertheless, so
much power remained in Mr Daubeny’s hand, and the election was delayed. That for Tankerville would not be held till the
20th of October. The whole House could not be chosen till the end of the month — hardly by that time — and yet there
was to be an autumn Session. The Ratlers and Bonteens were at any rate clear about the autumn Session. It was
absolutely impossible that Mr Daubeny should be allowed to remain in power over Christmas, and up to February.

Mr Molescroft, whom Phineas saw in London, was not a comfortable counsellor. “So you are going down to Tankerville?”
he said.

“They seem to think I might as well try.”

“Quite right — quite right. Somebody ought to try it, no doubt. It would be a disgrace to the whole party if
Browborough were allowed to walk over. There isn’t a borough in England more sure to return a Liberal than Tankerville
if left to itself. And yet that lump of a legislator has sat there as a Tory for the last dozen years by dint of money
and brass.”

“You think we can unseat him?”

“I don’t say that. He hasn’t come to the end of his money, and as to his brass that is positively without end.”

“But surely he’ll have some fear of consequences after what has been done?”

“None in the least. What has been done? Can you name a single Parliamentary aspirant who has been made to
suffer?”

“They have suffered in character,” said Phineas. “I should not like to have the things said of me that have been
said of them.”

“I don’t know a man of them who stands in a worse position among his own friends than he occupied before. And men of
that sort don’t want a good position among their enemies. They know they’re safe. When the seat is in dispute everybody
is savage enough; but when it is merely a question of punishing a man, what is the use of being savage? Who knows whose
turn it may be next?”

“He’ll play the old game, then?”

“Of course he’ll play the old game,” said Mr Molescroft. “He doesn’t know any other game. All the purists in England
wouldn’t teach him to think that a poor man ought not to sell his vote, and that a rich man oughtn’t to buy it. You
mean to go in for purity?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Browborough will think just as badly of you as you will of him. He’ll hate you because he’ll think you are trying
to rob him of what he has honestly bought; but he’ll hate you quite as much because you try to rob the borough. He’d
tell you if you asked him that he doesn’t want his seat for nothing, any more than he wants his house or his
carriage-horses for nothing. To him you’ll be a mean, low interloper. But you won’t care about that.”

“Not in the least, if I can get the seat.”

“But I’m afraid you won’t. He will be elected. You’ll petition. He’ll lose his seat. There will be a commission. And
then the borough will be disfranchised. It’s a fine career, but expensive; and then there is no reward beyond the
self-satisfaction arising from a good action. However, Ruddles will do the best he can for you, and it certainly is
possible that you may creep through.” This was very disheartening, but Barrington Erle assured our hero that such was
Mr Molescroft’s usual way with candidates, and that it really meant little or nothing. At any rate, Phineas Finn was
pledged to stand.